The North Beckons: May 2006

Of Mays and Junes

He tells me they first came to know each other as children. Even then, he says, she was everything to him. He recalls how she was so different from everyone else; how her hair danced about when they played, how her eyes had a sparkle not unlike that of sunlight on silver, and how her sweet voice calmed him so.

He loved her deeply. And though he professes a love passionate and violent, it was, in truth, patient and steadfast. It was a love no one could ever take from him, for he had woven her tightly into the the deepest layers that made up his being. It was a weave so intricate and fine that at some point, loving her was him. Where he ended, she began. He loved her deeply.

All he has of her now are memories of quiet mornings they'd spend in each other's arms. There, in the comfort of secrets, no words were spoken. There, he says, he felt no need for her to love him back. All he wanted was for her to never to doubt him. Never, for even a second, not to feel his love; distance, time, and circumstance notwithstanding. These memories are all he has now. He says they are more than enough.

He stands by what he says still. Different degrees of separation have done nothing. He still breathes her. You can see it in his eyes. He loves her deeply, still.

That's all he has, and nothing can take that away from him.

"These days are the loneliest days.
Should I try to believe goodbye?"

European GP Tifoso Race Report

European Grand Prix, Nürbürgring
May 7, 2006 Round 5, 2006 Formula 1 World Championship

Starting Grid:
M. Schumacher - 2nd
F. Massa - 3rd

Win number 2 this season.

I did not get to see the race live but got to see a few laps of the replay. As Pitpass put it, the "248, Bridgestone, Ross Brawn, and Michael's sheer bloody brilliance" were behind this win. On to next week and Barca. Forza Ferrari!

No Shit, Sherlock.

I haven't updated the blog for some time now because I've gone back to not letting a single thought get out of my head. I just keep them there, waiting for each one die a slow, suffocating death, never to emerge. Dead thoughts are good thoughts sometimes. Dead thoughts don't get you into trouble. They don't make you look like a patent idiot.

Only thoughts pursued shake up whatever tranquility you've got laid down. It's like a standard movie car chase-- a fruit stand is bound to get hit. Dead thoughts are good thoughts.

Rotterdam

I've been trying really hard to find my playing again. Of course I assume that there actually is something to find. I've never really convinced myself that I was any good; just brave and fortunate. I don't know why I can't, for the life of me, string together more than 5 notes and come up with an original lick. It's so damn frustrating-- playing free, feeling a new lick coming on and then ending things with the stuff that's literally been programmed into your fingers. OR, you come up with a something only to find out it wasn't as hot as you first thought it was. What you then do is try to re-work what you've got and land at the door of cliche mansion. And this is just playing with a few notes-- never mind writing a tune.

I've been caught in this rut for ages now. There was initial success in convincing myself that I just did not have enough time to practice, but that cop out lost its luster when I found myself with more free time than a convict. Then there was the "you don't find music, it comes to you" phase. As with pathetic excuse number 1, it seemed promising until the waiting was just too much for a man with my patience to bear. I gave up after 15 minutes. I could, of course, put it all down to sheer, wanton laziness, but can't be arsed to do so.

I'm at the point of concluding that it could all very well be simply a lack of talent. There's no other excuse.